


for once in my life

by haders



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Canon Compliant Childhood Trauma, Childhood Trauma, Deadlights (IT), Depression, Disassociation, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, F/M, Fix-It, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Stan has the shine, Stanley Uris Lives, The Upside Down, The Void, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22838695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haders/pseuds/haders
Summary: Richie awoke to darkness, but it wasn’t the darkness of his apartment. In fact, there was nothing around him. It was black everywhere, but seemed wide open and endless. When he took a step, he heard and felt his bare feet slosh in a thin puddle of water, that seemed to coat the whole floor. Wherever he was, it was silent. Every sound he seemed to make would echo somehow bouncing off the outer edges of the space around him.--Stan and Eddie are very much alive, but stuck in the Upside Down. A Stranger Things/It: Chapter Two crossover fix-it fic that no one asked for. :)
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 13
Kudos: 65





	1. Stanley Uris Takes a Swim

**Author's Note:**

> So for once in my life  
> Let me get what I want  
> Lord knows, it would be the first time  
> Lord knows, it would be the first time

If this was hell, Stanley Uris wanted a re-do. Why was he in hell anyway? Beyond attempting to murder an alien space clown and taking his own life, Stan couldn’t think of too much he had to feel sorry for (and he wasn’t so upset about the clown bit). Still, when he was growing up, suicide wasn’t seen so much as a sin, but of something you never spoke of. His third cousin passed away when Stan was a sophomore in college and his family said that he had been battling a long-term illness. He believed them up until years later when he found out it was actually suicide. 

Stan had never experienced any suicidal ideations before. He was in a great place emotionally before he died. He got a promotion at work; Patty and him were trying to start a family for years with no success, but they had just gone to a fertility clinic to see if there was anything they could do. When Mike called him, it was like a light switch was turned off. He couldn’t even speak to Patty as he went upstairs to take a bath. His mind was blank, consumed with the idea that he needed to do this. He needed to end it. Needed to protect them. And then it was dark.

_Patty_. What must she have thought? She had to _find_ him. His stomach lurched at the thought. Patty, his wife, finding him floating in his own blood in their pristine white bathroom. Did she scream? Did she know right away? _Please let her not believe it was her fault_.

If this was the afterlife, why was he still consumed by guilt? Stan always believed that the guilt would go away, you would be forgiven, living a careful, but safe life as your soul lived on. It deviated a bit from the beliefs he was taught growing up, but it helped him sleep at night. 

The afterlife was much like Derry, Maine, except darker, overgrown and very lonely. Stan would liken it to a setting from one of those post-apocalyptic shows that Patty liked watching so much. Gosh, he used to _hate_ those. Sunday nights he would just hear blood-curdling screams coming from their living room. He would duck his head in to see his wife, wrapped in a throw blanket, clutching a pillow to her chest, popcorn in her lap, eyes glued to the screen, watching the latest episode of _The Walking Dead_. It would take him only a second before he was joining her on the couch. 

Much like the characters on one of those shows, Stan felt like he had been walking for ages with no end in site. He found his old childhood home, but it was half disintegrated, the vines built up too heavy around one side of the house, weighing the walls down until they fell. He found the temple, but didn’t really want to spend any time there. 

Time didn’t pass like it did when he was living. It was _always_ dark here. He couldn’t quantify how long it took him, but eventually he made his way to the quarry. This was safe. This was always safe. The water was an inky black with the lack of light, but he still felt a sense of peace wash over him. 

As Stan stood on the bank, he looked out over the site of his childhood. He remembered swimming in the quarry for hours with the Losers until his skin was pruned and his legs were aching. Probably the only consistently happy spot for him as a kid. He never felt safe anywhere else. Never felt as happy.

He sat down on the bank and dug his hand in the gravel to pick up a rock to skip along the water. His wrist didn’t curve quite right and instead it made an unsatisfying _plop,_ a ripple starting from its entry point and echoing off in a perfect circle. He hugged his knees to his chest and rested his chin on top, closing his eyes to take a deep breath. He tried to remember, tried to— 

“Are you guys coming down or what?”

Stan’s eyes snapped open. The lake was suddenly illuminated. Something wasn’t quite right about where the light was coming from. Almost like it was shining from under the water and radiating outward. Still, he could see, just where the voice was coming from. The center of the quarry, a young Beverly Marsh was swimming in her clothes, calling up to the rest of the Losers on the cliffside. 

_Splash_.

A young Bill Denbrough’s head peaked up from the water, his hands scrubbing the grime from the sewer off his face. He grinned at Bev and swam closer, turning back to watch the next loser jump. 

He was paralyzed. His mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out. It was a memory. Eerily like it was plucked from his mind and displayed out in front of him. It was as if it was superimposed, cut out and glued back into place as if it were a scrapbook. The light started to creep closer to Stan and he could almost feel the sun warming his cheeks. 

Soon everyone was in the water. Richie was wrestling Bill, Eddie was scrubbing the inky black residue off of his cheeks until his skin was raw. Young Stan was there too, splashing at Mike and both him and Bev were laughing at something Ben said. 

“My glasses!” Richie shrieked, shoving Bill away from him. “That’s cheating! I’m basically blind now.” Bill laughed loudly before diving under the water in search of them. He resurfaced a moment later, sputtering and shaking his head. “Don’t tell me you can’t fucking find them.”

“I’m l-l-looking, R-Rich!” Bill called back before taking another dive.

“Stan! Stanley Urine! Stan the Man!” Richie called, arms out in front of him as he blindly tapped the surface of the water. His eyes were squinted and he grabbed Bev by the shoulders, holding her back at arms length. “Who the hell are _you_?!” To that, she giggled uncontrollably. 

Stan was already under the water having overheard, his head popping back up right next to Richie. He handed the thick rimmed frames back to his friend. 

“Thanks, Stan,” Bill called from behind him. 

Richie, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, blinked a few times before focusing on Stan’s face. He grinned and pulled him close, kissing his cheek with a loud smack. “Mwah! Knew you could find ‘em! Thank ya, Stanley!” 

Young Stan brushed him off, pushing Richie away and rubbing at his cheek. “Whatever, Trashmouth.” 

Suddenly Eddie was behind them, his hands on Richie’s shoulders, pushing Richie underwater. His eyes glistened in delight, smirking at Stanley before letting go and paddling away. Richie resurfaced, spitting out water and gasping, “Spaghetti, just wait until I tell your mother!” 

Then the lights turned off. The memory faded as Stanley blinked. One second they were all there and the next, he was alone. Back in this hell. His gaze grew unfocused as tears sprang to his eyes. How long did he have to continue on like this? 

Stan stood up and started to pad into the water. He looked down, but couldn’t see anything underneath the water, which was slowly becoming waist deep. He closed his eyes and dunked his head underwater. The eerie silence felt like he was in a sensory deprivation tank. He couldn’t hear anything. At least at the surface he could hear wind, weather, leaves from the vines rustling, the crunch of his shoes against the gravel, but here… 

“Richie, please…” 

His lungs burned and he surfaced again, gasping for air. The voice was gone, but he definitely _heard_ someone, hadn’t he? He ducked under the surface again. 

“Bill? Mike? Anyone?” 

Stan furiously swam to the source of the sound, headed further down the quarry. 

“Guys? Can anyone hear me?”

He could hear the voice clearly, but he didn’t recognize it. A frantic voice, that much he was sure of, but beyond that… His legs pumped harder, faster, desperate to find the source of the voice. Desperate to not be alone in Derry again. 

_You left me. You’re not my friends. You made me go into Neibolt._

“Please, I don’t want to be alone down here…” The voice was quieter now, scared, uncertain, but fading. 

_No, no. Don’t go._ _You’re not alone._

Stan resurfaced when he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, wiping the water from his eyes and blinking furiously to look around him. He was now at the shallow end, where the quarry met the creek. He managed to get his footing, standing up onto the shore and waiting to hear the voice again. 

“Please, please,” he whispered, clenching his fists. 

“Who the hell are you?”

Stan looked up to see a man, light blue polo, dark wash jeans, dark gray sneakers, hands clenched just like himself. He had a bandage on his left cheek, a dark red stain told him it was fresh. His lips were turned down in a grimace, but his eyes. Oh his eyes were so familiar. His eyes were wide, eyebrows furrowed in trepidation and fear, but those eyes told him that this man was brave and had a short fuse. He had his next comeback on the tip of his tongue, ready to fight. He knew those eyes anywhere.

“Eddie?” Stan gasped out. 

“Fuck, _Stan?_ ” 


	2. Richie Tozier Gets a Nose Bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie is struggling with the grief of losing Eddie. While isolating himself from the rest of the losers, he stumbles into The Void and finds him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: alcohol abuse, mentions of suicide, disassociation, anxiety, depression

His duffle bag lay at the front door untouched. The house was dark, despite the typical sunny Los Angeles weather outside. Years ago, his manager had insisted he purchase black out curtains to aid in his migraine episodes. It also helped on days where he worked late the night before, could block out the sun and catch up on sleep, although that was not the case today.

Richie was in bed lying on his side, staring at the wall. His spare glasses were off — lens fully in tact, no blood stain to remind him of… — somewhere on the bed or maybe the bedside table, he couldn’t remember. He arrived back from Maine three days ago and had barely managed to do much of anything. He didn’t really remember how he got home — probably a Lyft — and the last few days had been a blur. He was certainly disassociating, void of thoughts, emotions, and losing track of time.

Disassociating was not new for Richie Tozier. He had experienced it fairly regularly, but just attributed it to childhood trauma, anxiety, panic, depression, aka all of the things that he knew he was struggling with. Instead of trying to break down a trigger, understand what was bothering him, his brain would shut the world out, ready to protect itself from whatever was threatening to bubble up the emotions he had spent decades keeping inside. He remembered one road trip he had been on early in his twenties, driving on one of his first standup tours, and he didn’t remember how he got from Sacramento to Portland, Oregon. Hours of driving, just wiped from his memory. 

Breathing felt hard. It’s like he couldn’t gather a full breath, his chest feeling tight and small. He rolled over onto his back and felt the hard plastic frames of his glasses dig into his side. He huffed, reaching blindly to pull them onto his face. He blinked a few times and put a hand on his chest, trying another deep inhale before he began coughing. Then the memory flooded back to him. 

_Blood. So much blood. Pouring from his mouth. Sputtering, splattering onto his glasses._

_“Rich-ie.”_

_I know your secret._

_“Rich, I have to tell you something…”_

_Your dirty little…_

_“I fucked your mom.” Coughing. Laughing._

_Secret…  
_

_Eddie_. 

He shut his eyes tight and groaned out loud. Some noise, any noise to stop his fucking thoughts. He used to put on noise cancelling headphones and turn the volume all the way up on whatever Spotify played first, just to drown out the ruthless internal narrative of self hatred in his head. Anything to shut up the fucking trashmouth. 

He sat up and rubbed his hands through the sides of his hair, shaking his head back and forth almost to force out the rest of the memory from staying inside his head. He stood up, wincing as his feet touched the cold hardwood. He padded off to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, but not daring to look in the mirror. He didn’t need to see how horrible he felt. 

He shuffled off to the kitchen, hands fumbling in the cabinet for a glass, pouring water from the tap and taking a big gulp. He took another and swished it around his mouth to get rid of some of the fuzzy feeling that lingered in his cheeks. He leaned back against the countertop and looked out into his living room, still dark, still empty. 

Richie never minded living alone before. If anything, he loved it. Although you would never know it, he was actually an introvert. Or at least he recharged being alone, sitting in his underwear playing video games, with his phone off and zero human interaction. Speaking of— 

He walked back out to the living room, toward the front door to find his phone and keys on the table there. He grabbed at his phone and swiped, but it was dead, the red battery symbol flashing at him. He grunted and walked back into his bedroom, fumbling with the charger before plugging in his phone and sitting at the edge of his bed waiting for it to start up.

He quickly turned off the sound when hundreds of text alerts began dinging back to back, clipping each notification to sound off the next. He rubbed at his forehead and opened the messages app, scrolling to see messages from the Losers, separately and together in a group chat that he immediately muted notifications for without reading the thread. He thought he had been pretty fucking clear with them that he didn’t want to speak or hear from them again. 

—

It was that afternoon, they had all returned to the townhouse after the quarry and he silently went up to his room. After he showered and changed, he was still crying so much he ended up dry-heaving into the toilet, curled up on the tiled floor of his ensuite. He was shaking uncontrollably, wrapping his arms around himself and hugging tight. _He left him down there._ He could never forgive himself.

Intense grief turned into furious anger. He hadn’t wanted to leave Eddie. They made him. They pulled him out of there. All of them, they forced him out of there. 

“Honey, he’s gone,” Bev had said, but was he? Did they really check? Maybe he still had a pulse. Maybe there was some way to save him. Mike had the fucking ritual bullshit knowledge, maybe there was some fucking magic they could do. Bring him back. 

_We can’t leave him._ But Ben and Mike grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled, yanking him, forcing him away. Even at the street, all of them held him back from lunging into the collapsing house on Neibolt Street. 

In the quarry they joked. They laughed. Jesus Christ, even Ben and Bev fucking—

Suddenly Stan’s voice was in his head from all those years ago; hysterical, frightened, but stubborn. 

_You’re not my friends. You left me alone._

There were no more tears left to shed. Richie began furiously throwing things into his duffle bag, banging around his room, ignoring the faint knocking he heard.

“Richie, come on, honey, talk to us,” Bev had called from the other side of Richie’s door at the townhouse.

_You left me alone. In Neibolt. You made me go to Neibolt._

“Hey, we’re all upset, man,” Ben’s voice was next, nervously tapping against the door frame. “I don’t think any of us should be alone right now.” 

That did it. Richie swung his duffle bag around his shoulder and wrenched the door open so hard it slammed against the wall and its hinges whined. 

“I’m leaving,” he said, pushing past Ben with a shove and thundering down the stairs. Bev and Ben stood paralyzed for a second before barreling down after him. 

Richie turned to walk toward the front door when Bill and Mike entered from the lounge, blocking his path. “Move.”

Mike’s hands were up in front of him in defense, walking slowly toward Richie as if he were a feral cat, spontaneous and reckless, he couldn’t anticipate his next move. 

“Richie,” he began.

Richie stepped forward, hand still gripping the messenger bag strap on his arm. Bev and Ben were behind him on the stairs, hesitating, but definitely blocking him in. Bill stayed put in the center of the doorway to the front entryway.

“Fucking _move!”_ His shout echoed in the high-ceiling foyer. Bev winced at the shout and Ben put a hand out on his shoulder to stop her from moving. 

“Richie,” Mike continued. “We’re all upset. Why don’t you wait until tomorrow. We can all sit and—”

Richie stepped forward until he was right up against Mike, while three inches shorter than him, he somehow still managed to tower over him. “Move,” he repeated, his voice like gravel. 

“Hey, Rich,” Bev’s voice wavered behind him. She took a step down on the stairs, but didn’t get too close. “We’re worried about you.”

Richie lost it. He laughed, spinning on his heel and walking toward Bev with venom on his breath. “Worried about me, huh, Bev?” He cackled. “Didn’t seem fucking worried about me when you and Ben were making out in the fucking quarry.”

“That wasn’t—”

“Our friend just fucking died, but you think that’s a great time to suck face, huh? Are you a fucking psychopath? I mean, what the literal _fuck_ ,” Richie bellowed.

“C’mon, Rich,” Bill was suddenly behind him, hand on his shoulder pulling him back. 

“Oh like you are any better, B-B-B-Bill?” Richie snapped, rolling his shoulder and shoving Bill away from him. “Fucking making lovesick eyes at Bev ‘cause she chose Ben? Am I the only one who cared about E-E— him?”

_You’re not my friends._

“Richie, lay off him, man,” Mike said, stepping forward to put an arm between them. “We all cared about Eddie.” 

“Don’t fucking say his name,” Richie grunted, not missing a beat. “And Mike, fuck, you’re the worst of all,” he took another step toward Mike, shoving him back by the shoulders. “First Stan, now Eddie? Maybe I should have just left Bowers to it.” He continued to shove Mike until he was pressed against the wall, Richie’s forearm pressed against his collarbone, forcing him back. 

“Rich!” Ben yelled, suddenly behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder and trying to pull him back, but the adrenaline was too much. 

Richie turned around and swung, getting Ben right in the jaw. He stumbled back and Richie’s hand sung with pain, but it didn’t matter. Mike took the moment to pull Richie’s arms behind him back and hold him there, Bev and Bill huddled around Ben. Richie twisted and pulled, breaking the grip Mike had on him. 

He straightened the strap from his duffle bag on his shoulder and took the opportunity to bust through the front door. He ignored the calls and yells behind him and headed out to his car, slamming the door shut, and making his way back home.

_You’re not my friends._

— 

He thought he made it fucking clear that he didn’t want to speak to them again, but here they were, continuing to text him, continuing to call and bully him into forgiving him, to make themselves feel better for what they did. 

_Guys, I don’t want to be alone down here._

_Eddie._

_You are braver than you think._

_Thanks, Rich._

Richie groaned again, closing his eyes tight and shaking his head furiously to stop his mind from going down that path. He tossed his phone on the bed and stood, making his way back out into his kitchen and banging around his liquor cabinet for whatever was closest. He popped the cap and took a long swig, choking a bit on the burn down his throat. He stumbled back to the living room and flopped down on the couch. He took another long swig and gulped through the ache, turning on the television and flipping the channels without really processing what was flashing on the screen in front of him.

He spent much of an hour like that, ending up on his back, staring at the ceiling. One arm hung off the couch, hand still clutching the bottle of vodka. The other arm was resting over his eyes, his glasses pushed up onto his forehead. The volume on the television was at a low volume, barely a murmur, not enough for him to make out what anyone was saying, but enough to keep some white noise and distract him from staying in his head. There was a pleasant buzz, warmth enveloping him. His stomach growled at the lack of food and if he opened his eyes the ceiling would spin, but he felt better. Numb.

Still, the relief always faded when his mind drifted back to Eddie, struggling to remember what his voice sounded like, not wanting to forget the memory of the hypochondriac, the man, the boy, the love of his god damned life. He remembered one summer, the two of them standing on top of the cliffside, staring down at their friends swimming in the quarry. Richie was always hesitant to jump — although he had corrective lenses, his depth perception was always a bit off, so he struggled with heights. He never told the rest of them though, always laughed it off with a “gotta save the best for last” quip. 

Eddie knew though. Eddie always seemed to know him better than anyone. He just sensed that Richie was scared or maybe he just knew he needed someone. He never let on, never verbally said anything to him, but that day, Eddie just reached out a hand and took Richie’s, squeezing tight to grab his attention. When Richie looked at him, Eddie’s eyes bright and smile wide. 

“Together?” Eddie asked.

“Sure, Eds,” Richie replied, trying to ignore the shakiness of his voice. 

“Don’t call me that, asshole.” And they jumped. 

Richie jolted right at the impact of the water, as if waking up from the memory. He awoke to darkness, but it wasn’t the darkness of his apartment. In fact, there was _nothing_ around him. It was black everywhere, but seemed wide open and endless. When he took a step, he heard and felt his bare feet slosh in a thin puddle of water, that seemed to coat the whole floor. He was still clad in his gray sweatpants and t-shirt which he had been sleeping in for days. Wherever he was, it was silent. Every sound he seemed to make would echo somehow bouncing off the outer edges of the space around him. 

As he continued to walk straight ahead, he flexed his hands at his sides and braced himself. Somehow he knew this must be a dream, must be one of those nightmares that overtook him. Soon enough, a big bouncing clown will come from the shadows and eat him or maybe today it will be the Paul Bunyan statue again, that was a recurring favorite. Still, in the back of his mind, a tiny voice echoed, _you’re not dreaming, Richie._

He continued to walk ahead, swinging his arms as he stretched, preparing himself for the fright. 

“C’mon, Pennywise, jump out,” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth to make his voice louder. “I’m sorry I called you a sloppy bitch, but you are still traumatizing me so I guess we’re even? Let’s just get this over with.” He turned around in a circle, looking all around, begging the jump scare to happen. 

“What the fuck is _that?!”_

Richie jumped at the voice he heard. It couldn’t be. His mind was playing tricks on him. It wasn’t — was it? 

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘they’re just spores’?!”

_Eddie._

He fucking knew that voice anywhere. The panic, the rage. He heard it a million times growing up and it would always accompany a furious shuffle through one of his two fanny packs, searching for his inhaler, and taking a big puff. 

Richie took off running. 

“Why the fuck are they floating everywhere?”

“Eddie?!” Richie choked out, his legs pumping fast. He followed the voice, but he felt like he was underwater, his ears cotton-filled, muffling the echo of Eddie’s voice. 

“Is it safe to fucking breathe that shit in?!”

_Don’t open your mouth._

_Why?_

_Cause then you’re eating it._

“Eddie!” Richie bellowed, his eyes focusing on a blurry silhouette about half a mile ahead of him. He continued to race toward the figure and as he got closer, he saw him. Eddie, standing there with his arm outstretched angrily. Who was he talking to?

“Eddie! Fuck, Eds? Eddie?” He immediately outstretched his hands, reaching out to wrap his friend in a hug. As he made contact it was almost as if Eddie evaporated. His entire body disintegrated right in front of Richie’s eyes and he was alone in the dark room again, arms wrapped around himself. He collapsed to the ground and choked out a sob. “Eddie?”

He jolted awake when he heard a knock at his front door. He sat up from the couch quickly and groaned, quickly placing the bottle of vodka on the coffee table. He rubbed his eyes and pulled his glasses back down, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. 

“Richie Tozier, open the god damned door!” His manager, Steve, yelled from outside. 

“Y—” he coughed. “Yeah, just a second!” 

“Nope, now, you fucker!” Steve continued to bang his fist on the door. 

Richie’s head ached, but he grunted and shuffled around, tossing a pillow from the floor back on the couch, rushing into the kitchen to put the bottle back in the liquor cabinet. He went into the bathroom and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His nose was bleeding. _Huh_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what do ya think?


	3. Mike Hanlon Goes to the Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pushed through the front door and turned around quickly to shut it behind him. He took another deep breath, looking only at his feet as he stepped into the large entrance of the library. It was still dark with the storm taking away any semblance of sunlight they could have, the only light coming from the streetlights through the windows. His sneakers crunched against the shattered glass and wooden shards from the broken display case. His heart was pounding as he mustered up the courage to look up and see— Nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mike is super hard for me to write, so I hope this does him justice! I have so many ideas and fun things planned, but needed to set up some tension first, lay down what the rest of the losers have been up to. Hope you like!! Follow me on tumblr @hadersz

Mike wasn’t sure he slept at all that night. He didn’t go home the night that most of the Losers left Derry. He stayed in the townhouse in the room Ben had been staying in, staring up at the ceiling until his eyes became unfocused and dry. He wasn’t sure how long he had been like that; he had heard Bill puttering around in the room next door, but it must have been _hours_ since Bill had stopped and gone to bed. He glanced at the clock and saw six thirty-six glowing back at him.

He didn’t think that anyone would stick around Derry; the only thing keeping them there in the first place was no longer an issue. They defeated IT, but their childhood traumas still lingered untouched, raw and aching - the feeling Mike had suffered for nearly three decades spread among them.

After Richie, Beverly was the next to leave. After two hours on the phone in an adjacent room, she emerged eyes red-rimmed and smile forced, telling the group that she was sorry, but she had to go home. Ben was next, obviously, already headed off to help Bev pack. Mike wasn’t sure if Ben was going with her and it really wasn’t his business to ask, but he wished them well, called a cab to take them to the airport, and gave them both crushing hugs before sending them off. 

Bill was eerily quiet despite everything and everyone leaving. He made no mention of going home, although his phone lit up with dozens of notifications that were left unanswered. Mike assumed Bill stayed to make sure he was doing okay. 

_Losers have to stick together, right, Mikey?_

They had eaten dinner in mostly silence, just listening to the rain against the windowpane. As soon as Ben and Bev left, a storm rolled through Derry. The excess rain put stress on the otherwise vast drainage system and sewer network, and a small flood started. Not enough to cause panic or too much damage, but enough to notice, enough to get your shoes soaked through. 

“You’re going to stay here tonight, right?” Bill had asked, breaking the silence, but not looking up from his silver takeout tin filled with pasta. Mike just looked up from his own meal and nodded with a forced smile.

Although Bill _asked_ it, it didn’t really sound like a question. There was a lot there left unsaid, an elephant in the room. Bowers. His body would be “discovered” by Mike in the morning, or so that’s what he planned. Naturally a dead “cop-killer” wouldn’t be so much mourned as celebrated, but Mike didn’t have the best history with the Derry town police force. Still, it was an issue for the morning. With Bill by his side. If Mike ever got the courage to ask him to be there. 

_You should’ve burned, Mike._

He sat up in bed with a gasp, swinging his legs over the side to sit on the edge. He hunched forward, rubbing his hands over his face and closing his eyes tight, trying to get Bower’s voice from out of his head. His arm ached and he grabbed at the bandage there, adding a bit of pressure. The bleeding had stopped long ago, but the ache remained after picking out all of the glass pieces. The ache and pain helped, kept him grounded.

_Just like your druggie parents._

He shook his head again, blinking hard, trying to get the ringing out of his ears now. Three decades stuck in Derry meant that Mike never forgot. Anything. 

_Do you see them yet?_

It always started like this. A ringing. It melted into a high piercing scream. _Screams_. _Mikey! Help us, Mike!_ He could almost hear nails digging into the wooden frame of the door. Fingers reaching out through the cracks, the flesh melting of the bone. The smell of burning human hair, flesh, and—

_Crisping…_

He rested his hands on his knees and tapped each one, one at a time, breathing deep. A makeshift EMDR exercise that his therapist taught him. Bilateral stimulation. Helped with trauma. Supposed to help. He was safe. This was just a memory. Just a flashback. It wasn’t real. It was just a memory. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t—

_Like fried fucking chicken._

Mike jumped to his feet and began pacing around the room, shaking his arms at his sides to dislodge the vividness of the replaying memories. Without so much as a second thought, he grabbed his keys, slid on his sneakers, and was out the door. He bounded down the front stairs, taking the steps two at a time, before bursting through the front door. 

The rain felt like ice pelting against his flushed skin. He took a deep breath and began to run, with each footfall he picked up water that lapped at his calves. He pushed harder, pumping his legs faster and faster, feeling nothing but the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He usually exercised in times like these, but now wasn’t so much going for a run in the rain, this was for survival. He had to be sure. 

He had to make sure. 

Mike dropped his keys on the front porch of the library as he fumbled to unlock the door. His hands were soaked, slipping on his keyring again as he forced the key through the lock and turned. His hand lay on the doorknob for a moment, trembling. His gaze lost focus as he concentrated on the noise of the rain hitting the pavement behind him. He just needed to make sure. See that the body was still there, turn around and go back to the townhouse. Just needed to see. Just needed to be _sure_ that this was all over. 

He pushed through the front door and turned around quickly to shut it behind him. He took another deep breath, looking only at his feet as he stepped into the large entrance of the library. It was still dark with the storm taking away any semblance of sunlight they could have, the only light coming from the streetlights through the windows. His sneakers crunched against the shattered glass and wooden shards from the broken display case. His heart was _pounding_ as he mustered up the courage to look up and see—

Nothing. 

Books were still scattered over the floor, the wreckage of their fight was obvious from the mess of the place, but right there, where Mike thought he would die at the hands of his childhood bully, there was nothing. No body.

Mike ran across the room and knelt to the floor, hands patting the wooden planks looking desperately for a sign. For anything, but no blood. Not even damp. Now he wasn’t an expert or a medical man, but a head wound, and not just a head wound but an _axe to the head,_ surely must have bled a lot. So much blood that they would have probably needed to remove part of the floor and replace it. So much they wouldn’t be able to get the stain out, it would’ve seeped into the wood grain. 

And the axe! He gripped the handle, raising the head of the tool to his gaze to see no stains, but it wasn’t clean either. Almost like it had just fallen out of the display case - Derry firehouse antique axe - along with the photographs of the first established firehouse in the town. It was old, sturdy, but untouched. Preserved and not used to— 

“Bowers!” He yelled, turning his head to look between the rows of bookshelves, but Mike _knew_ Bowers wasn’t there, just like he _knew_ Pennywise was back from hibernating — or whatever murderous alien clowns do — when he called the Losers. Maybe it wasn’t even Bowers that he saw, but another one of IT’s tricks. 

A sickening rumble started in Mike’s gut as he sat back and cowered, sliding until his back was pressed up against the wall and he was hugging his knees to his chest, the axe still nestled in his lap. He inhaled through a choking sob and began to tremble again. The panic, the loneliness, the gut wrenching guilt, the fear; it was all compounding. It wasn’t over. This meant that it wasn’t over. 

A crash of thunder shook the room; Mike could nearly feel it vibrating the floorboards. Thunderstorms weren’t uncommon in Derry, especially in the summertime with the evening temperature drop. 

“When is it going to be over?” He whispered to himself, groaning out a pathetic whine. “Please, _please,_ just let this just be _over!_ ” he shouted as a burst of light illuminated the library when lightning fractured the night sky. The back of his head thumped against the wall behind him. 

“This isn’t real, this isn’t happening,” he muttered desperately. “I’m safe. This isn’t real. It’s over. It’s over. It’s—” 

He stopped with a gasp as the lights flickered. On and off, so brief, so quick he almost missed it with a blink. He staggered to his feet, back still pressed against the wall as his eyes glanced to the wall opposite him where the light switch was, but there was no movement. He would chalk it up to the storm outside, but the lights had been _off_. 

The lights flickered again and he pushed off the wall to start his pace around the room, holding the axe at the ready. He ducked around corners, searching in between the bookshelves for something, anything that made sense. An animal maybe? Could just be old Derry building electrical wiring. Can’t be that safe, can it? 

On his way down the third aisle of shelves, he jumped at the sound of a book falling off the shelf next to him, the one against the furthest wall. He held his breath, stopping mid stride and waited. Another book slid off the shelve and fell to the floor. He could hear loose papers fall from the book and scatter across the floor. He took a quiet step backward, slowly making his way down the aisle to catch whoever or whatever was there. 

As he turned the corner, he saw _no one_ just two books on the floor. He bent down to pick them up, glancing around him to make sure. As he crouched down, another two books fell on his shoulder. He winced at the impact and staggered back as three more books fell, but they were just sliding off the shelf, nothing to prompt the movement. Another three books fell off a different row, then another bunch from the bottom row. Mike tripped backwards, the fallen books quickly piling up at his feet. 

This didn’t feel right. This didn’t feel right.

He fell backwards, pushing back to the end of the aisle and watching the books fall before the next unit began purging its shelves of books. Another crash of thunder shook the room as Mike cowered in the corner once again, his hands above his head, waiting. He jumped as the two bookshelves fell forward, beginning a domino effect and pushing the next two shelves over before ending the collapsing wave at the opposite wall. 

His entire body was trembling as he sat in the corner of the library, his breath heaving, his back aching as it pressed further into the wooden frame. He braced himself for what was coming next. The screams. The taunting. Pennywise coming out with a giggle and a skip in their step. _You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easy, did ya, Mikey?_

He figured it was the best way to go, away from the others where he wouldn’t put anyone else in danger. He hoped Bill wouldn’t come looking for him or if he did, it would be during the daylight. Not that that would really keep him safe, but… 

When no impact came _,_ Mike hesitantly opened his eyes, glancing up to see light. Not just the streetlights streaming in through the windows, but a glowing, burgundy light coming from behind the wall. It was peeking out from beneath the molding, almost emanating through the wallpaper. He could hear muffled noises behind the wall, but— but not screaming. Not what he was used to hearing thrown back in his face. It was a calm conversation. 

Mike slowly stood up and made his way over to the wall, stepping over books and onto a fallen shelf, clenching the axe in one hand at his side. He raised his other hand and pressed his palm over the wall. All of the light behind the wall seemed to rearrange and focus on that point of contact, a glowing orb pulsing behind his palm. He felt an eerie sense of calm, almost as if all of the fear had been evaporated from his body. The muffled talking continued and Mike strained to decipher the noise. 

Behind him, the old stereo behind the librarian’s desk began to crackle and seize to life. With the bookshelves knocked over, Mike turned to get a clear view of the room and static-sounding radio that seemed to turn on its own. The lights began to flicker and pulse, matching the same beat that he felt under his palm. A few lights flickered beside the radio, a few others by the study desks opposite, a few more by Mike, all turning on and off at different times. Almost as if they were communicating or there was a pattern. Like someone was pacing around the room. 

A loud shock of thunder and burst of lightning was what broke the spell. The lights turned off, the radio went silent, and the glowing orb behind the wall disappeared. The room fell silent again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What'd ya think??


	4. Eddie and Stan Make Small Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie and Stanley catch up, freak out, fight, and find some answers.

The rain had started just as Eddie arrived, well _after_ Eddie freaked out about the floating spores in the air. Since when did hell have weather? Despite the similarities this place had with Derry, there weren’t many places for them to duck and hide to escape the rain and although they were feasibly _dead_ , after a minute or two scrambling around in the mud, their wet clothes clung to their bodies making them shiver and wince in discomfort. 

Stan and Eddie raced through the rain to the library, one of the only buildings in town that looked to have a solid structure left with a roof still in tact. The post-apocalyptic look of Derry was eerie to say the least. Once they ducked inside, it looked like the library had been untouched by the decay of the town, despite the vines and overgrown weeds peeking through the floorboards and bursting at the seams of the crown moulding. 

Still, they were dry enough now. Eddie was hesitant when he came in, as if there was some history in the library that Stan wasn’t privy to. A lot must have happened and they still hadn’t really spoke much about anything, but this is how they got there at least. Stan had hopped up on the librarian’s desk and laid his back against the wood, folding an arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. Eddie paced around a bit as they talked, but not about Pennywise and when Stan asked about the others, Eddie fumbled. 

“Everyone else was fine,” Eddie said. “At least when I left them, they were—”

Stan hummed in acknowledgment. It was weird how far removed he felt from it all. He felt guilty when he had first arrived in this post-humous Derry, but now that Eddie was here with him, the guilt had dissipated a bit. He had already come to terms with Pennywise’s telepathic manipulative hold he had on him that drove him to suicide. Somehow it was nice to feel like he wasn’t the only victim of it all. 

Luckily, the conversation drifted to what the hell they’ve been up to for the past three decades. It was surreal that even in death, they were just old friends catching up what with Stan’s tattered wrists and Eddie’s t-shirt covered in his own blood. 

“You’re married?” Stan asked, nodding toward the glint of gold on Eddie’s ring finger.

Eddie nearly jumped, holding out his hand and looking at the ring as if he forgot it was there. As if Stan told him he had a spider crawling up his arm. He covered the ring with his other hand. 

“Uh, yeah, but,” he hesitated again and then shook his head, deciding not to reveal whatever came to mind. “Yeah. What about you?”

“Yeah,” Stan sighed, closing his eyes as he thought of Patty. _There was that guilt._ He hopped up on the counter.

“Oh yeah, Christ,” Eddie muttered. “I— uh, Bev talked to her on the phone when, uh—”

“She did?” Stan sat up, eyes wide. “How did she sound? Fuck, well of course she didn’t sound… was she okay? Were her parents there? She didn’t have _anyone_ in Atlanta. I fucking left her all—”

“Whoa, hey,” Eddie interrupted with a hand on Stan’s shoulder. “Just Bev talked to her, I didn’t get to hear much.” Stan wilted at that, shoulder slumped and eyes drawn down to his lap. 

“It wasn’t me,” Stan interjected, straightening up again to face his old friend head on. He had to make him believe it. “The— I was _happy_. We were trying for a baby. Work was good. I just got a promotion, I…” he swallowed back the lump in his throat, blinked back the tears coming to his eyes. “It wasn’t me, Eddie.” 

Eddie’s wide eyes bore into his, blinking a few times as he processed. He nodded once and sniffed a bit. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, I believe you, man.” And that was that. 

Stan was reminded of younger Eddie Kaspbrak, of the Loser who had his head on straight, who could see the risks and back Stan up when he didn’t want to partake in whatever _frivolity_ Richie or Bill had concocted. The brave one, who would tell the others _no_ when Stan was too afraid to. Eddie believed him and that was enough. For now. 

“Tell me about her,” Eddie said with a smirk. 

Stan smiled back and sighed. “Patty was— _is_ amazing,” he said with a grin he couldn’t help but share. “You all would’ve really liked her, I think. She’s quick, witty, I mean. Would’ve given Richie a run for his money, I’ll bet.” 

Eddie laughed and went to hop up on the desk next to Stan, legs swinging out. “Yeah, would’ve loved to see _that_ ,” he said, looking down at his feet and snorted.

Stan’s smile lingered, but his heart plummeted. His hand gripped the edge of the desk, clenching and unclenching, his knuckles turning white. 

“We were going to take a vacation,” Stan admitted. “‘ _You’re working too much,’_ she would always tell me and it was true, so I cashed in my PTO and we were going to go on a cruise or something. Forget about the doctors and the baby shit and just take a break.” His gaze became watery and unfocused as he watched the blur of his legs swinging back and forth over the edge of the desk. 

“She deserved that, you know,” he continued on. “A break from everything. More from me. More time together. She deserved that.” He sniffed, and added, “I really, _really_ miss her.” 

Eddie put his hand over Stan’s in comfort, squeezing tight and sighed, at a loss for words. 

Much of their time was spent like that. Little conversations, catching up with an old friend. 

_What have you been up to the last 30 years?_

_Accountant?_

_Yeah, I can see that._

_Risk analyst? Are you fucking kidding me?_

_Shut up, Stan._

Was time even passing in this pseudo-reality? With lack of sunlight, lack of daylight, lack of weather beyond the raging storm outside, there was no way to tell. Stan felt exhaustion like an ache in his bones, but he wasn’t sure if he could sleep. He wasn’t sure the last time he had slept. 

Time passed mixed with silence and idle chatter, catching up from the last two decades, reminiscing of the childhood memories they had without trauma - swimming at the quarry, awkward middle school dances. With silence came Eddie’s pacing while Stan just lounged in the plush leather chair behind the librarian’s desk, his feet kicked up on the mahogany top. 

The storm continued to rage outside and he wondered if this was the new normal of this hell-scape. Lighting lit up the dark room of the library from the skylight overhead and thunder seemed to vibrate the entire building. Stan leaned his head back on the chair, staring up at the ceiling and willing sleep to take him to at least pass the time. 

“Do you know _where_ we are?” Eddie spoke first, Stan wasn’t sure how much time had passed since they first fell silent after the small talk was done.

“Nope,” Stan replied, popping the p. He could hear Eddie exhale heavily in frustration. _Welcome to my world._

“Well is there anyway to fucking find out?” Eddie asked; Stan figured this was rhetorical since he continued to ramble. “I mean we are in a hell version of Derry, not that Derry wasn’t hell, but this is like the post-apocalyptic version, right? Did we jump forward in time? Is this the afterlife? Does everyone go to a post-apocalyptic version of their hometown? No heaven or hell, just this shit?” He paused to take a breath. “Or is this _It?_ I mean, I am pretty sure I died—pretty sure _you_ died—but if it _is_ It, then wouldn’t we see everyone here? If the clown is still alive then It probably killed the rest of them too, right?”

“Eddie,” Stan spoke, but Eddie’s ramblings continued and steamrolled over him. 

“And why _Derry?_ Like shouldn’t I be allowed to haunt the living if I am still conscious as a spirit or whatever. I don’t know I never believed in any of this shit, my mom never took us to church— never took us anywhere, I was never spiritual before but I mean if alien demon clowns can exist, why not ghosts, right?”

“Eddie…” Stan was sure that Eddie’s pacing was making permanent indents in the rotting floorboards.

“Also, why the fuck is the library still standing?” Eddie threw his hands up in exasperation. “I mean, you saw it out there, there is barely anything left! The whole main street is just a pile of bricks and shit!”

“EDDIE!” Stan bellowed, kicking his feet off the desk. For dramatic effect and luck, his yell landed right at the crash of thunder outside. Eddie visibly jumped and stopped mid pace, looking up with wide eyes, as if remembering Stan was there. 

“I don’t know why we are here or where the fuck we are or if we can get out of her to go haunt the living,” Stan replied calmly, tone even and measured. “But if we are stuck in this hell afterlife together, then I need you to _calm. the. fuck. down._ ”

Eddie’s fists clenched at his sides. He took shallow, even breaths before his mouth snapped shut and he turned on his heel and walked away. With anyone else, Stan would have been worried, but this is how Eddie was as a kid when he got like this— too worked up to calm down with a sour look on his face — he needed a minute to cool off. So Stan leaned back in the chair, taking a deep breath, and closed his eyes. 

In retrospect, he shouldn’t have snapped at Eddie. Stan had time to process all of the unknowns already and Eddie didn’t. He just died. He just met up with his friend after 27 years of amnesia and he was just thrown into this hellscape. If anything, Stan was surprised it took Eddie that long to explode. The little outburst about the spores outside was minuscule in comparison to the real patented Eddie Kaspbrak Freak Out™ that was brewing, bubbling just under the surface. 

Stan opened his eyes, leaning forward and sighing in frustration and guilt. When Eddie came back he would apologize, seriously try and work out some of those questions with him, but they would have to remain calm. Otherwise who knows how long their minds can take this? 

His hands roamed over the papers and books on the wide U-shaped librarian’s desk. There were flyers for upcoming library events, readings for kiddos, book releases, family nights, et cetera. The books seemed to be just returned and yet to be put back on the shelves, as if a librarian was just working here days ago and abandoned their post. There wasn’t any dust on the books, no grime unlike the rest of the world around him. It was almost as if the desk was preserved somehow. 

He idly began to stack the books, in alphabetical order by author because _of course_. With each stack, Stan moved it to a nearby library cart to clear off the desk. Patty always used to poke fun at him for this, but Stan _loved_ to organize. He always felt a sense of relief, of accomplishment, when he tidied up, but it was also a huge stress reliever. Sometimes Stan felt twenty pounds lighter after cleaning just the spice cabinet in the kitchen. Once, when another fertility doctor had no news for them except to _keep trying_ , Patty found him organizing her vanity and she had to physically shoo him away. 

On his third or fourth pile, Stan was just putting away an oddly pristine copy of _Grimm’s Fairy Tales_ when he noticed a composition notebook. The front cover was worn and thin, bits of the patterned marble were torn off and there was a thin layer of dust on it, unlike the rest of the books Stan had been organizing. He pulled down his shirt sleeve and ran it across the front cover to remove some of the dust and found an eerily familiar name scratched out in bubble-lettering. _Betty Ripsom._

“What the fuck,” Stan whispered, dropping the notebook as if it were burning his palms. He pushed back his chair and looked wildly around the room for something, anything to tell him this was a joke. That he was seeing things. He blinked a few times and looked back down, but Betty’s name was still there, the pressure of her teenage hands left indentations in the thin cardboard. 

With shaky hands, he lifted the front cover and saw what looked like dozens of pages had been torn out, the binding still had rough edges of the pages. Nearly halfway through the notebook was the first full page with a handwriting much more frantic and less whimsical than she had written her name — if this was still Betty’s handwriting. There were short entries, separated only by a line or two, some unfinished.

_My name is Betty Ripsom. I live at 23 Harris Ave. Derry, Maine. I am thirteen years old. ~~I was taken by a clown~~ There was a voice in my sink_

_ There’s a fucking kid here with his arm missing. His name is Georgie. I remember his parents in the newspaper asking for anyone who may have seen him last. I think there was a _

_ I don’t know why some of us are “normal” and some turn into—something else. _

_ I heard my mom today. The house is here and I thought I would go see it, see if there was a way back, and I swear I heard her in the walls, like she was trapped on the other side. _

_ Georgie turned today.  ~~ I don’t ~~ Patrick got him. I don’t know if I will be next. I haven’t seen anyone else here and I think they need more _

“Eddie!” Stan yelled as his eyes continued to scan down the page. “Eddie, get back over here.” He turned the page to see a new set of handwriting. 

_ My name is Adrian Mellon. I’m from Portland, Maine. I was in Derry on a writing assignment for work. My boyfriend is from Derry. We were at the Canal Festival and _

Next page.

_ I’m Vicky Fuller. I’m really scared, can someone tell me how to get home? I don’t know where my _

Next page.

_My name is Steven Johnson. I live at 43 Center Street. My wife_

Next page.

_ I’m Dean Forrester and I just want to go home, please. I tried calling my mom but she won’t pick up and I don’t know how to get home _

Next page.

_My name is Dawn Roy. I live at_

Page after page were names listed, stories told. The handwriting varied in style, some young kids, some adults, all rushed as if they were racing against time to write out as much as they could. Meanwhile Stan felt like no time at all was passing. He recognized the names from the missing posters, some from childhood, and some that littered the main street in this version of Derry. 

Each of their final entries were unfinished, stopped mid sentence and left forgotten before a new voice took their place, continued on with a fresh perspective, while giving no reaction of why the last voice stopped. Stan swallowed, his stomach turning over in his gut, feeling too ill to think about _what_ happened. The clown was fucking traumatizing enough, dying at the hands of this _thing_ was enough! Why did it continue in the afterlife? 

Maybe this wasn’t the afterlife after all.

“What the fuck is that?”

Stan jumped out of the chair at Eddie’s voice, dropping the notebook that he was clutching in his hands to the floor. Eddie put his hands up in surrender, slowly approaching Stan as if he were a spooked wild animal. He leaned over and slowly grabbed the notebook from the desk, turning it around and looking at the cover. As he read, his eyes widened. 

“I think this might have some answers for you,” Stan said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for leaving comments! Sorry this took me so long to update. Excited to see where it goes next. Do you likey?

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a playlist if you want: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6QhAyQoZq2YbUWUoJ7rUYT?si=ayI8UjG5QDC1nez5ByW7Kw
> 
> I don't know if I will ever finish this, but I have it all mapped out. A bit of Stranger Things cross-over with some The Shining bits in there for fun. 
> 
> Did you like? Tell me your thoughts plz!


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